


Missing

by dramatisecho



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Disappearance, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Missing, Multi, Mystery, Obsession, Other, Post-Reichenbach, Suspense, Tumblr Fic, chase - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-03-29
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-02 17:12:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,992
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/371401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dramatisecho/pseuds/dramatisecho
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which, the Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers 	intentionally disappears, and the world's only Consulting Detective chases after him. Post-Reichenbach AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

 

"Sherlock… it's been over six months." Lestrade commented gently. "Maybe you should give it a rest, eh? You could talk to someone, just t-"

"I don't need to talk to anyone!" The detective snapped. His eyes were wild and bloodshot; clear to anyone with eyes that Sherlock was tired, exhausted even… not that the genius would never admit it. He'd been running at full speed ever since this whole mess began. Ever since his return.

Lestrade sighed, and looked to his right. The entire flat was covered with papers, maps and photos. It was the type of organized chaos that only Sherlock Holmes could understand.

"Sherlock." The older man tried again, a bit firmer this time. "You need to accept the fact that if John Watson wants to disappear… he can. And _will_. For godssake, he was in the army, I'm sure his 'stealth' abilities are considerably higher than yours. You might be the world's only consulting detective, but you're not giving John enough credit."

The lanky, high-strung detective ignored the comment, and focused on the mapped shrine posted on the wall in front of him; littered with photos of John from surveillance cameras. "He's alive, we know that much based on the images captured by the CCTV cameras." He muttered. "Most of the pictures are somewhat blurred. He knows to avoid them, he knows where they are, and he knows that in a moment of desperation I'll turn to my brother for information. He's not wrong. Clever, John… John, John, my John…" He growled, running his eyes over every detail, hoping for a clue to his whereabouts.

"You'll be lucky if he's still in the UK." Lestrade piped up again. "Why don't you just give him his space? He didn't take your 'death' well. Hell, _none_ of us did, but it hit John the most. Your 'return from the dead' didn't help make everything magically better for him, either. You know this is all your fault."

Sherlock snapped his head around to glare at Lestrade, "Yes, thank you for your input. I was more than willing to make it up to John, but that's rather _difficult_ now that he's running away from me!" He hissed.

"You abandoned him for three years. I say good on 'im if he's giving you a taste of your own medicine." The detective inspector mumbled angrily. "Look, I only stopped by to tell you that from this point on... you're on your own. I can't waste any more police time and energy looking for an army-captain who _doesn't_ want to be found. If you're smart, you'll let him be."

Sherlock focused his eyes on the extensive map and photos before him. "No. I won't stop until he's found. He can't hide from me!" He yelled furiously. "I won't let him, he can't get away… not after everything I've done for him…"

"Jesus, would you listen to yourself?" Lestrade shouted.

"Get out." The other snarled. "If you're not going to help, then you're an obstacle. I don't need distractions! I'll find John Watson and _drag_ him back here with or without your help!"

Lestrade was about to respond, but the buzz of Sherlock's phone distracted them both. The consulting detective eagerly opened the message from his brother,

_Seen boarding a train in Amsterdam._  
 _Grainy footage, but confirmed eye witness identification._  
 _Car should arrive at Baker Street for you momentarily._  
 _MH_

"Ah... you've slipped up, Doctor Watson," Sherlock muttered to himself as he quickly grabbed his coat.

Without so much as another glance toward Lestrade, Sherlock bounded down the stairs and out the door.

The older detective exhaled slowly, and walked over to the window to see Sherlock slipping into a black luxury car.

It peeled away from the curb quickly, and disappeared down the street.

Taking out his cell, Lestrade typed a quick text:

_He's on to you. Won't give up, either. It's getting out of hand._  
 _Don't you think you've made him suffer enough?_  
 _GL_

It only took a moment for a reply to chime-in from an 'unknown' number.

_No._


	2. Never

  


 

_Hotel Astrid, 27 Avenue Carnot_ _  
MH  
_

_  
_

_You're sure this time?  
SH  
_

_  
_

_John Watson reportedly checked in six hours ago.  
The front desk has confirmed that he has retired to his room.  
One night.  
MH_

 

Sherlock didn't bother responding.

He was so close. He could practically taste John Watson's slightly-above-average intelligence in the air. “A foolish mistake, John, really. Using your actual name? Careless.” Sherlock breathed with a malicious chuckle as he approached the hotel.

He'd come back from chasing and dismantling Moriarty's web – only to be thrown into another chase. This one with much more at stake. Sherlock couldn't imagine a more suitable 'welcome home' gift from his blogger. _'John. His John. John Watson. Ex-army Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Doctor. Friend. John Hamish Watson.'_  
  
The detective knew John would be furious to learn he was alive; what's more, that he had taken on such a large, criminal base. Alone. It had been a serious blow to the man's ego. After all, John Watson had prided himself on doing what no one else could: he had broken through Sherlock's near-impenetrable emotional armour to become his friend. His only friend (as Sherlock once recalled saying). So needless to say, John had every right to be furious with Sherlock.  
  


Sherlock – who had faked his death and hid his plan.

Sherlock - who had worked alone for the past three years.

Sherlock - who had trusted Molly Hooper to keep his secret, but not John Watson.  
  


So, he was paying the price. He had to find his John; he had to chase him down, and drag him home to prove how much he meant to him. He would go to the ends of the earth to retrieve him. He needed John. Those three years apart had not been easy for Sherlock either, though he was considerably better at hiding that little fact than John was.  
  


The punishment fit the crime, and Sherlock had felt an adrenaline rush like never before. It was a jolt better than anything he'd ever experienced. _'Missing for nearly ten months, now...'_ Dear, sweet, unassuming John was giving him the chase of his life.

Slipping into the hotel, Sherlock approached the front desk, where an older gentlemen was seated. “Bonsoir. Je crois que vous avez une clé pour moi.”  
  
The employee stretched lazily, “Nom?”  
  
“Sherlock Holmes.”  
  
"Ah. Oui.” He sighed, forcing a weary grin and handing Sherlock a keycard. “A l'étage, au sixième étage. Chambre 221.”

Sherlock scoffed to himself as he headed toward the stairs. _'221? So obvious, John. You know I'd follow your trail, you know I'd discover what room you were staying in. Teasing me, like you believe you have the right to. But alas, my John, what you did not account for was the reach of my brother. My cunning. My knowledge of you as a whole. John Watson. His John. John Watson. Ex-army Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Doctor. Friend. John Hamish Watson.'_  
  


He reached the sixth floor rather quickly, but paced himself in the quiet, empty hotel hall. A cursory glance to the numbers on either side of him indicated two things; one, John's booked room was at the other end of the hall – and two, John's room was next to an exit, presumably a fire escape. So he had to approach with caution.

When he reached the door, Sherlock simply stilled, and listened. He could hear the faint sound of movement from within, the clinking of a glass (undoubtedly containing some kind of hard alcohol), and finally, a gruff cough.  
  


Taking a slow breath in, Sherlock swiped the key card and charged into the room. He was stopped in his tracks, however, when a 9mm was cocked and pointed right at him.  
  


The hotel room was rather bland; small, too, but that was common in Paris. Too many people, not enough room. But the room was of little consequence.  
  


What Sherlock was more focused on (and silently infuriated by) was that the man sitting in the chair near the window and end table... was not John Watson.  
 _  
_

_'Soldier, obviously. Afghanistan or Iraq. Position seated, but poised and ready to act on instinct, if need be. He's been drinking but only enough to get a buzz; so, bored drinking, he's been waiting. He's trained to kill, but certainly doesn't plan to harm me, given the look in his eyes and lax grip on his gun...'_  
  


“You're not John Watson.” He stated aloud.  
  


“But you're Sherlock Holmes.” The man gradually broke in a smile. “Christ. I thought he was lyin' when he said 'ow good you were.” He downed the rest of the scotch in his glass.  
  


Sherlock's fists clenched, “Where. Is. John. Watson.” He hissed.  
  


“Feelin' like a bit of a prat? ...Not a nice feelin', is it?” The man smirked. “Thank you Mario. But our princess is in another castle.” He declared with a slight flourish of his hand. The detective's brow creased in confusion. The soldier frowned, “Didn't you play any video games growin' up?” He huffed when Sherlock remained silent; the reference clearly lost on him. “Right then, let's try somethin' simpler. He ain't _here_ , mate. As far as this place is concerned, I **am** John Watson. Got the paper work and everythin'...” He picked up a stack of papers and what looked like a passport from the table, and waved them cheekily in Sherlock's direction.  
  
The consulting detective didn't waste another second. He turned on his heel and stormed out of the room – heading straight down the stairs and back onto the Paris streets.

_  
Decoy. JOHN ISN'T HERE! You've failed your only task.  
I have no brother.  
SH  
  
_

_No need to be dramatic.  
MH  
  
Confirmed. There are six other John Watson's booked into various hotels around the city. All for one night.  
I do believe we've underestimated our dear Doctor Watson's abilities._

_MH  
  
_

_YOU underestimated his abilities.  
SH  
  
Really? Tell me, Sherlock, how much did you puff yourself up before you waltzed into that hotel room, thinking John would be on the other side? Thinking it was just going to be that easy.  
MH_  
  
Sherlock winced, and resisted the near uncontrollable urge to snarl. True, he had assumed that John Watson's number was up. He expected his friend to make one careless, obvious mistake. Something overlooked. Simple. Why shouldn't he? Sherlock knew he was infinitely more intelligent than John Watson. _'His John. John Watson. Ex-army Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Doctor. Friend. John Hamish Watson.'_

Coming to an abrupt halt in the middle of the cobblestone street, Sherlock exhaled a breath he wasn't aware he'd been holding. And laughed. _  
  
'Clever John, clever. Well done, you. You have your network; not homeless, but brothers in arms. Your soldiers. Oh my John. You can be brilliant. This is your battlefield isn't it? Always was. You are truly trained to disappear.'_  
  
The chime of his phone alerted Sherlock to a new text. He reached languidly into his pocket, expecting to see another useless suggestion from his older brother. But instead, he read:

_Stop chasing me.  
JW_

The number was listed as 'blocked'. Message: three words.

Sherlock felt his heart rate increase with the single word he chose to respond with.

_Never.  
SH_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Google Translator = the French. If it's wrong, oh well. Le Google Translator can take ze blame.


	3. Atmospheric

  


 

It was a gamble. A long shot.

But John Watson was proving to be one of the most formidable opponents he’d ever faced. And that was saying a lot for his resourceful companion.

It had been one year and six weeks since he’d started chasing his best friend across the globe. At first, it was all in good fun. Sherlock had welcomed the challenge and found it rather amusing that John _thought_ he could outrun, outwit, and outplay him. Unfortunately, like so many others before him, Sherlock had greatly underestimated what John Watson was capable of when he put his mind to it.

Now? Sherlock was frustrated. Actually, he was beyond frustrated; he was pissed off. He was tired, he was bitter, and he was running out of threads to pull. Mycroft had attempted to assist him in any way he could, but mostly, he was left to his own devices. Lestrade had long since given up, and seemed keen on taking John’s side. _‘Give him space, Sherlock’ … ‘Let him be a while’ … ‘He’ll come back’…_

Idiots, as far as Sherlock was concerned. He knew what this was. He knew it was his job to bring John home; to show his friend that despite his lies, despite his deception – it had all been for the greater good. John’s greater good. Sherlock had ripped John’s heart out, and no one was more aware of that fact than the detective. But these things could be fixed. John wouldn’t stay mad at him forever, he knew that, but Sherlock had to prove himself.

Mycroft seemed to have had enough of this chase, and had resorted to advising Sherlock that he simply give up. John Watson was hardly worth the trouble, in Mycroft’s opinion – and like a lovable pet, would eventually find his way home once Sherlock stopped looking. Besides, the fact that Sherlock had only faked his death in order to SAVE John’s life… should have been _more_ than enough to appease the doctor and absolve Sherlock’s deception, in his opinion.

But Sherlock knew he owed this to John. His _owed_ it to his best friend for keeping him in the dark, for making him suffer alone, for the anti-depressants, the counselling sessions, for the sleepless nights and recurring nightmares, for the failed relationships, for the haunted memories, and for the betrayal he’d surely felt upon learning that Molly Hooper had been a part of it.

John didn’t resent Molly. He resented Sherlock, and rightly so.

No. He couldn’t blame John. He would serve out his sentence. Three years, he estimated; the same length of time Sherlock himself had been absent. It fit.

Unfortunately, his John was an elusive, clever human being. Sherlock had tracked and traced him as best he could, but time and again he’d been duped. John’s military-trained evasion was truly remarkable.

Eventually the chase had led him to his current location: this predicted gamble, this long shot.

Mycroft had it under good authority that John had been squatting in a small, abandoned house outside of Jetrichovice Village, just by the National Park _Bohemian Switzerland_ , in the Czech Republic.

Sherlock wasn’t holding out too much hope. It seemed this entire chase had left him always one step behind his beloved blogger. It was a huge blow to his ego, there was no denying that. And once John was safe and sound back at Baker Street (where he rightfully _belonged_ , no less), Sherlock planned on giving him an earful for all the trouble he was putting him through.

He was creeping through the house as quietly as possible. A quick glance around the shabby kitchen showed a few plates here and there, a mug or two and some disregarded teabags. Signs of life. Sherlock moved to the fridge and opened it. It was empty, aside from a glass litre of milk.

He couldn’t help but smile. The milk hadn’t expired, and it was a staple of John’s life. His blogger needed his tea like he needed oxygen.

Shifting his icy orbs around the rest of the room, he moved toward another door and slowly pushed it open. It was empty, save for a sleeping bag on the floor. Sherlock swept over to it and knelt down. His hand gently trailed over the material. It was still warm.

 _‘He’s still here…’_ Sherlock thought victoriously.

He smirked, and stood up again. Buzzing with excitement, Sherlock sharpened every possible sense he could; he listened, his observed, and digested everything as he frantically moved through the small dwelling.

But John was nowhere to be seen.

Sherlock frowned, and allowed the aching disappointment that was throbbing in his chest to take hold of him for a moment… before he pushed it aside, and instead, embraced his blind rage.

Tugging his long coat tighter around his frame, Sherlock stormed out of the drafty house and into the brisk, foggy landscape that surrounded him. Anyone else might have taken a moment to calm down; enjoy the beautiful scenery that enveloped the lone house and stretched on for miles in every direction.

But Sherlock was too busy seething with rage to care. He pulled out his phone with the intention of texting his frustration to his (unhelpful) older brother.

That is, until a gunshot echoed in the hills.

Sherlock paused, and lifted his chin up. He couldn’t see anyone or anything around him.

Another shot. This time whizzing right past his ear and embedding itself into the side of the house. Immediately ducking out of the way, Sherlock scrambled as fast as his legs would carry him to the other side of the house. A few more shots followed, each one missing his person, but still coming dangerously close.

Resting his back against the wall of the abandoned shanty, Sherlock tried to calm his rapid breathing.

_Was he trespassing? Is this why John had left? Had he also been shot at? Perhaps he was injured, somewhere in the woods… bleeding out… maybe he needed Sherlock to-_

His phone buzzed, interrupting his thoughts. Turning it over in his hand, Sherlock read the message, sent from a ‘blocked’ number.

_Did I miss?  
JW_

Sherlock stared at the message. John. _His John had been shooting at him. Of course he had._

Lulling his head back against the damp wood, Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh as he typed a message back.

_Sniper rifle?  
SH_

_Good deduction.  
Don’t even think about moving.  
JW_

Licking his lower lip, Sherlock found his heart rate wasn’t decreasing… but in fact, beating faster and faster. He was so close. It was exciting to know he hadn’t lost his touch; that he could still follow, he could still deduce, he could still chase. Not only that, but John seemed to be pulling out all the stops. For some reason, having his best (and only) friend trying to pick him off and scare him back with a sniper rifle was damn near arousing. John knew him so well; knew he could take a bit of heat, knew he wouldn’t want John to go easy on him.

 _‘John. His John. John Watson. Ex-army Captain, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Doctor. Friend. John Hamish Watson.’_ He repeated that mantra in his head.

Bracing himself, Sherlock took off, and bolted toward the outdoor, overhang shelter that lay behind the house. He needed another vantage point, he needed to try and spot John’s position.

More shots were fired; bullets ricocheting off the ground around his feet as he ran. Hunkering down behind the shelter overhang, Sherlock allowed himself a few more deep breaths before he peeked around the side to see if he could spot any movement in the surrounding woodlands.

_‘Damn this fog… damn the woods, damn John’s camouflage, and damn his-‘_

Sherlock’s thoughts, once again, came screeching to a halt when he noticed a new discrepancy on his coat. Near the bottom. A bullet-sized hole. Gritting his teeth, he typed another furious message to his counterpart,

_You shot a hole in my coat.  
I will demand compensation once you’re caught.  
SH_

It only took a moment for John to respond.  
 _  
Don’t count on that happening.  
JW  
  
I also warned you not to move.  
Nice to know you **still** don’t listen.  
JW_

The rev up of a nearby motorcycle caught Sherlock’s ear.

He shifted from his position on the ground and peeked out again… only this time, he saw John Watson, perched atop an off-road motorcycle that had pulled up in front of the house. He had a sniper rifle slung across his back and was dressed in camouflage. There was a duffel bag securely fastened to the back of the bike, and a helmet covered every inch of John’s face… with the exception of his eyes.

John stared at Sherlock for a few minutes, before revving up his motorcycle. The bike spit up a cloud of dirt and grass behind him, and John took off like a shot. Just as soon as the Doctor accelerated, Sherlock was leaping out of his hiding spot and running toward his own off-road motorcycle parked in front of the abandoned home. John, no doubt, had acquired that bike legally… where Sherlock had simply stolen the first one he’d come across when he’d arrived in Jetrichovice.

_‘I knew I was close. I know I can catch him. I’ll have t-‘_

Sherlock was utterly gobsmacked when he discovered that his motorcycle wouldn’t kick on.

John had disabled it.

_‘How could he have possibly-‘_

Sherlock stopped himself. He closed his eyes,

_‘Of course. While I was wandering around that house like a curious toddler, John was already waiting… watching… he disabled the bike and retreated to set up his position…’_

“God damn you, John Watson!” Sherlock bellowed, shoving his motorcycle over with a furious kick.

His cellphone buzzed again with a new message:

_I say again: stop following me.  
JW_  
  
 _I say again: never.  
SH_


	4. When In Grief

 

Two years and two months.

  
Another anniversary of their little game, their suffering. And it wasn't even over yet. No, Sherlock had another ten months of this... another _ten months_ without John, another ten months to endure his penance.

  
But today, of all days, he felt like he would have a shot to speak _properly_ to his friend.

  
Harriet Watson: deceased, two days ago. Excessive alcohol consumption and inevitable poisoning. Not that anyone who knew her would be surprised. John had been good at keeping her on the wagon of recovery; calling her once every few weeks to check in, making sure she went to her AA meetings, and dropping by for the occasional visit. They were never incredibly 'close' as far as siblings went, but God knows John tried.

  
When he started this little game of theirs, and essentially disappeared – Sherlock had suspected it was only a matter of time before Harry slipped. And while he might have had an initial inclination to get her another source of help, what with being John's next of kin... the selfish side of him held back.  
  


Because he _knew_ , if anything were to happen to Harry... John would return. The consulting detective was also aware that John had more 'friends' than either of the Holmes brothers had anticipated (that was evident from the involvement of his disbanded unit, and his ability to slip past their extensive resources by using his own). So, word would no doubt reach John quickly about the passing of his sister.

 _  
Selfish._ He _was_ selfish.

  
But he wanted John.

  
And he was prepared to exploit the death of Harriet Watson to retrieve him...

  
And _nothing_ would stop him.

  
Mycroft had generously arranged the funeral, since John was not present, and they had no living relatives to speak of. It was a small ceremony, and not much of a turn out. Sherlock was quick to identify Clara, who arrived with her new partner, and quietly wept for her ex. When all was said and done, and the casket lowered into the ground, the small funeral party took their leave. No reception afterwards; none required.

  
Sherlock naturally stayed behind... prepared to watch the new gravestone like a bird of prey.

  
It took three days. Naturally Mycroft insisted Sherlock take breaks to eat, drink, and sleep... but he was never absent for more than two hours at a time. One of Mycroft's little minions watched in his stead, and they were on strict instructions to contact the detective if the 'target' was sighted. But as luck would have it, it was indeed Sherlock who caught his first glimpse of John Watson in a little over half a year since their last encounter.

  
He saw the man approach the gravestone slowing; remorse evident in his body, his reluctant steps. It was almost half past three in the morning... so the graveyard was incredibly still, silent, and rather dark. Sherlock's eyes had adjusted to the darkness hours before, however, so visibility of his estranged partner was clear.

  
Sherlock watched John close the final few steps between him and the grave of his sister, before he fell to his knees. He didn't appear to be weeping, but his body and shoulders sagged with clear exhaustion, grief, remorse. Of course, it _could_ have also been relief. But Sherlock _knew_ John, and knew that despite how hard checking-in and looking after his older sister had been... he wanted what was best for her. It was just his nature.

With the realization that he could lose his moment at any second, Sherlock launched forward and ran toward John. The ex-army Captain seemed to notice the detective's rapid approach merely a second too late; for Sherlock, he had counted John's grief over the loss of his sister as a sizable advantage and perfect distraction. John didn't seem at all pleased to have Sherlock barrelling into him like a rugby player. The impact was hard and fast, but the short blonde was quick to counter the attack when Sherlock landed atop him. He slipped his knee and foot in between their bodies, and kicked out, flipping the detective man overhead and onto his back on the grass. Sherlock gasped in sharply, the impact briefly taking his breath away. But John was scrambling to his feet, so despite being a bit winded, Sherlock got up to follow. He was able to narrowly avoid a punch to the face, and quickly delivered a sound hit to John's kidney. It stunned the soldier with a flash of pain, but didn't stop him from hooking a left across Sherlock's jaw.  
  


They continued to scrap for the next seven minutes, equally matched and landing their fair share of blows. John delivered some of his BEST punches, in the hopes of making Sherlock dizzy and thereby stopping the fight. But a few seconds after each hit, the lanky detective was right back at him. In fact, from a stamina standpoint, Sherlock was proving he could outlast John. The broader, stronger (and unfortunately older) soldier was already beginning to get tired; normally he delivered a few, rock hard strikes, and his opponents would give up. He'd never lost a fight. Sherlock, on the other hand, had speed and seemed to be able to endure some heavy beatings. Where he lacked in physical strength, he excelled in physical endurance.  
  
Yet one mistake in Sherlock's technique was all John needed. And when the dark-haired male attempted to get John into a headlock, the ex-army captain was quick to toss him over his shoulder and flat onto his back on the grass. John straddled him, and grabbed Sherlock's coat collar in his bruised, cut hands, yanking him up a bit – panting and glaring angrily at the detective.  
  
Unable to escape from the hold, Sherlock allowed his exhaustion to take over, and he limply complied to John rough-handling into a semi-seated position to look him in the eye. His lip was split, he would probably have a black eye and a few more on his body soon enough. Sherlock's right brow was cut, and blood was trickling down alongside his eye and cheek He would, no doubt, also be sporting some major bruising within the next few hours.  
  


“You... were _waiting_ for me...” John gasped, trying to catch his breath. “You... _knew_ I'd... come back... for her...”  
  
Sherlock's breathing was just as laboured as he stared up at John through hooded eyes. “Yes,” the deep baritone admitted, “I knew you'd come back to see her... I knew I could exploit that sentiment to see you. Your sister's death might be painful... for you... but it was an _opportunity_ for me...”  
  
John's lip curled and his eyes flared in what appeared to be disgust. He jerked Sherlock forward and up a bit again, looking as if he would kill the detective right then and there for sinking to such a low. But instead, John's resolve crumbled. His eyes watered over, and he lowered his head, choking out a sob.  
  
Sherlock's heart clenched, it lurched, it fluttered, it sunk.

  
He felt guilty.

  
For the first time in a long time, he'd done something shrewd and selfish and disgustingly low in the name of achieving his goal... and he felt _bad_ about it. Because John was hurt.

The detective's hands, which had been splayed on the ground beside him ever since John had pinned him down – slowly rose to rest on John's hips. “John... I'm....” he started, but his words of apology were cut off the moment John slammed their mouths together in a desperate, heated, hard kiss.

  
There was a mixture of saliva and blood exchanged - the kiss had that sharp, tangy flavour of iron as their tongues and teeth duelled and nipped. John's hands slid up, and went from gripping Sherlock's coat collar to carding his fingers through that dark mess of curls; giving a violent tug to pull them closer.  
  
Sherlock involuntarily groaned with the rush of it all, and wrapped his arms completely around John's waist... believing for the _briefest_ second that it was over. That he _had_ John now.  
  
Of course that victory lasted all but five seconds after John tore his lips away from the detective's... and instead, slammed his forehead against Sherlock's in a quick headbutt. Sherlock collapsed back onto the ground with a painful moan; splitting headache and blurred vision now accompanying the overall ache in his body.  
  
“Ten more months left... you son of a bitch...” John muttered darkly, voice still tainted by his grief for Harriet. It wasn't a harsh dismissal, but more of a statement. He planned to see this sentence through, and Sherlock was just going to have to endure.

  
Like he had.

  
The detective blearily forced his eyes open again to see the doctor's retreating form get further and further away, before finally disappearing out of sight...


End file.
